56
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: A transwoman named Anya meets a surprisingly spry young man one evening. Trans!Rus x Ame Human AU
1. Chapter 1

"Anya?"

Alfred stared.

The woman in front of him nodded shyly.

A smile split across his face. His tanned cheeks crimsoned and his eyes began to glittered. He reached forwards and lightly shook her hand, shivering with excitement. "Wow." He said.

"Wow what?" She asked, keeping her voice low. It was too deep. She marked that note in her head, a pen flicking upwards, staining paper with blood. Her heart shook.

Alfred shook his head slowly. "Wow. Just, wow."

Anya was growing annoyed. A light frown crossed her mouth, her lips stretching. "I don't admire it when men like you pretend to be cryptic. You're terribly easy to read, for one, and two I'm not very literate."

A clever statement scorched with self-destruction. Alfred noticed. "I mean, wow. Look at yourself." He made a gesture across her frame. From her large calves to plump hips to a breast tightly wrapped in a red dress, to her swan's neck, to the long hair tied back in a bun, and even to the nose she felt was too big.

"You're gorgeous."

She blushed deeply.

The neon blue orbs hung around them, making shadows dance across the pale carpet. Waiters walked past, smiling occasionally. Anya and Alfred sat next to each other at the bar for lonely adults. Their drinks sat before them, the liquid still. Pulsing lumination from the aquariums encircling them, giving the illusion of being trapped in a bubble underwater, splashed across Anya and Alfred's faces. Her blush looked almost purple.

"So, Anya, do you have a number?"

"Fifty-six."

"Uh, I mean a cell-phone number." Alfred said.

She paused.

"Yes."

"Ok."

She didn't give it to him. She turned back to her food, poking at the rice with the prongs of her fork. She built a tiny house on top of a strip of fish.

"Fifty-six?" Alfred asked.

She nodded.

"Anya Braginskaya, number fifty-six."

"Fifty six in what? In a marathon?"

Alfred didn't look like a cruiser, Anya noticed. He wore a collared, striped shirt and worn jeans. He looked merely like a working man unwinding after another week at work. There were no rings on his fingers.

"Not quite." She said.

"Then in what?"

"You wouldn't like me if I told you."

"Fifty-sixth serial killer?"

She smiled briefly.

Her hands, they were too big. Something the doctors couldn't fix. Ropy vein lattices crossed them. Her nails, painted pink to try and hide the thick muscles wrapping up her big bones, rested on the edge of the fork. She stared at it. Another wave of light splattered her hand as a revolving light-bulb traveled behind the aquarium.

"No, fifty-sixth successful operation."

"On what?" Alfred had been watching her. His eyes rested on hers. He seemed completely taken with her. She met his gaze, feeling her heart tighten. She counted down the seconds until that gaze would break and a disgusted scowl with spread across his mouth.

Why did she even bring it up?

He would have known sooner or later, she reasoned.

"It's a bit taboo in some places."

Five…

"Like where?" Alfred asked. "Here? In this country?"

Four…

"I came here from home to get the operation."

"Sounds quite romantic."

Three…

"Hardly." Anya shrugged. "It would have been easier to be… something else. Even here."

Two…

"You should stay true to yourself."

One!

"That was the argument they made back home. That I should have stayed male."

She waited for the crescendo of awkward silence to swoop up and come crashing down on them. She waited for the birds to stop singing. For the waiters to turn. For the clinking of utensils to finally cease. For Alfred to turn away uncomfortably, and make an excuse as to why he couldn't stay.

Nothing changed.

Anya felt as though a meteor had missed the earth.

The noises of the restaurant continued. The waiters waltzed past. Forks still clicked. The dull murmuring of voices riding on the wave of soft, melodious jazz continued. Alfred continued to look at her kindly, if not more taken with her.

"I'm glad you were successful." He said.

"Thank you." She muttered.

"So," Alfred took a sip of his drink. Whiskey was it? "Did you go full gender reassignment surgery or was it just on your upper torso plus hormones?"

Anya swallowed hard. It felt like an egg-shaped rock had lodged itself into her throat. She brushed her bangs to the side, her hair feeling smooth.

"I went on hormones when I got here at twenty-five. Then I got the full surgery. Now it's all set in place." She could fall in love with this man.

Alfred nodded. "Good. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you."

"No problem." Alfred grinned, showing off a row of glittering teeth.

"You're quite knowledgeable."

"My daughter's friends is transgender. She came to me for advice. I couldn't get her the money but I could find her a place to stay. I wish I could have done more."

"You have a daughter?"

"Yeah. She's thirteen. Her friend is older." Alfred added.

Anya felt her heart sink.

"Oh."

How old was he then?

"I'm not that great of a dad, though." Alfred said sadly. "I try, though."

"Hell, that's more than some people." Anya smiled.

"I guess."

"Are you a single father? I don't see any rings."

Alfred held up his hand, nodding. "Yes. She fell into my arms when I was seventeen. Scariest year of my life. Her mother was… out there. Now she's gone."

"Did you love her mother?" Anya asked casually, trying to pretend that she wasn't going to fall into the arms of hopelessness again. Could she care for a child, for that matter? Ah, no, she was getting ahead of herself.

Alfred bit his lower lip. There was a scar. A piercing must have been there once, a long time ago.

"In a way."

Anya nodded.

Alfred turned to her. "What about you? Have you been in love before?"

"With a man, once." Anya said. "That was long ago, before I realised who I am. And before that I had fleeting girlfriends. Such was life."

"I see."

"Yes."

Alfred paused, stirring the drink as if it could break the silence.

"Your English is good."

"I try."

Alfred looked at her, seeing the humour that laced her dark, strong eyes.

"Yeah. We can both try."

* * *

_I don't own Hetalia._


	2. Chapter 2

Anya sat at home with music spilling from her headphones, draped around her neck. She looked out into the sky, where the moon hung low and crickets chirped like a wild, natural orchestra. Her hair was pulled back, away from her face. She wore no make up, so she looked even paler under the soft moonlight.

Her mind continued to swim around that man, Alfred. He was handsome alright: a cowboy movie star, with a tough jaw and straw-coloured hair, with ropy forearm muscles, and a fatherly shine in his eyes.

She tried to brush him out of her mind. Over and over, but he always had the key to the backdoor and would slip in, unnoticed, until she realised in the middle of her work day she had been picturing her body swaddled in his arms. The thought of his daughter let the image flee.

Then the memory of the napkin would come back, twisting in the wind. The napkin with his thick handwriting, his number written boldly across it. Anya had it tucked in her purse. She copied the digits into her cellphone. She hadn't called. Or sent him a message.

Her red nails hung over her phone now. A message was on her screen, from her sister. It had an image attached. Anya tapped on it, waiting for it to load.

The image was of two wedding gowns.

"Which?" Katarina had typed out for her in Russian.

Anya frowned, tapping her fingers against the screen. The clicks felt satisfying to hear. She examined the first one, a lacy, open-backed simple dress. Then the other one: a puffier, more floral, and classic type. Anya punched in her answer and then browsed her contacts.

There, the first name in her contact list: Alfred.

She wanted to, desperately. Her heart pounded. He was friendly enough. If he didn't like her, then he would never have given her that number to begin with. Right? Yes, right. Of course.

Doubts began to burst in her mind like fireworks. Maybe he was just being polite. Hell, maybe that wasn't even his real number. Maybe he had taken pity on her. Maybe he was just a friend. Maybe he preferred men. Maybe maybe maybe.

She checked the time. Nine pm. It was a little late, wasn't it?

She paused, took a deep breath, and called the number.

It rang several times. Each tone pierced her heart like an ice dagger. She held her breath at the final tones, and, mercifully, heard the click.

"The number you are trying to reach is not available right now…" came the monotone woman's voice recording.

Anya began to hang up.

She hesitated. Long enough for it to go to voice mail. She cleared her throat, conscious of how deep it sounded over the phone.

"Hello, this is Anya. The one you met a few nights ago. This is my number. Just wanted to check up on you and let you know this is my number." She winced, noticing she had repeated herself. "Um, bye." She hung up, turned around, and buried her head in the pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding.

What had happened to her?

What happened to her original persona: the charming, cold, threatening "man"?

Couldn't she have put that into her new, better self?

Instead, her other side had taken over. The lonely side, the one that was ridden with a hard life and now conscious of every move made. She had lost so many friends, so many people had began to dislike her, and slowly her confidence eroded.

Luckily, this was the side that only was visible when she was swathed in privacy.

She lay in bed, her body curled around the pillow. Her headphones were strewn, still trickling music into a deaf room. She watched the moon glittering in the distance, letting her eyes slide shut.

She was woken at about eight in the morning by a phone call. Her heart flipped in elation. She must have called him too late and he, having just woken up, decided to call her back. She scrambled for her phone, which in her sleep had tumbled to the floor, and look at the screen.

Her smile fell. She answered the call.

"Hello." She said.

"Hello," came the voice of her doctor - Dr. Arthur Kirkland. "How are you this morning?"

"Well enough, but I haven't been awake long enough to give a true judgement of the morning yet." Anya retorted.

Arthur was unfazed. She imagined his lips twitching in a fusion of annoyance and amusement. She hadn't seen him in over a month. That must mean he was calling for anything appointment.

"I'll remind you," as she had predicted, "that you're due in this Saturday."

Usually a bored nurse or secretary was the one to make these calls. Arthur handled few patients, earning a pretty penny out of all of them, and preferred to keep personal. Not because he was a man bent on the utmost perfect service, but because he did not trust anyone to do his work for him. He had two nurses in his private office, as well as an accountant. That was all he needed.

"Thank you." Anya said, ready to say good-bye and move on with her day. She considered texting Alfred, then quashed the idea. She didn't want to have to check her phone every couple of seconds when a ghost of a vibration emitted from her purse.

Arthur wouldn't have it. "Now, I called to make sure of other things."

"I am dilated, I've taken care of it," Anya said, "My medicine is all being taken as it should be. Facial feminisation surgery bruises have faded now. My breasts have settled. All as we spoke of last time, except now I _think _I don't have to shave as much."

"Good, good." Arthur said. Meaning this was not at all what he wanted to hear. "How are you emotionally?"

She paused.

How was she?

"Well."

Arthur hummed. "Alright, we'll discuss this at your next appointment. Have a good day."

He hung up before she could put in another word. She stared at her phone, sighing. Another conversation, another exchange, and still she felt alone.


End file.
